


just close your eyes and breathe

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Crying, Depression, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Has Issues, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 01:27:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17499041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: au: All the avengers are living at the compound (yes, even Bucky). But it’s not all happiness and rays of sunshine around here when you’ve got multiplebrokenhuman weapons of mass destruction.Steve Rogers is somehow able to see into— no, live, andfeel— Bucky’s nightmare. It isn’t pretty— nothing about it is pretty. It’s a kind of pain that lingers even after they’ve both woken up.





	just close your eyes and breathe

**Author's Note:**

> title: american oxygen by x ambassadors
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Bucky?”_

_“Who the hell is Bucky?”_

—

Steve’s stomach turned. He swung his feet over the side of his bed and winced as the icy tile seeped through his skin. 

A cold sweat had found its way to his back and he threw on a sweatshirt. 

After splashing his face with water, he realized that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again, so he made his way to the compound kitchen. It was dark— too dark. Nothing like Brooklyn.

Bucky was sleeping on the couch. Steve had noticed that he hadn’t been sleeping in his own room lately. 

He stood in the doorway to the lounge, watching Bucky as his eyelashes fluttered with each uneven breath. He knew Bucky never slept well, but he also knew that it was getting worse. 

And usually he would step back, remove himself and act as if nothing is wrong because that’s how he’d been brought up, that’s all he’s ever known, but with Bucky it felt different. There was a guilt inside him, that ate away from the inside, that he should be doing something to help. Because it was Steve’s fault, right? The guilt, the shame of not jumping after his friend when he fell. Maybe things would’ve been different. 

But the problem was always the same; he didn’t know what to look for if he wanted to help. And if he did know, he’d have no idea what to do.

And then Bucky’s arm twitched, the flesh one. His hands clamped into fists and his breathing took a sharp turn. He was convulsing, sporadically, with small, jerking motions and for a second Steve thought he was having a heart attack. 

But before Steve could move, even open his mouth, he saw scarlet and then nothing at all.

—

Fear. Falling. _God_ , he was falling. And then there was black, and seeping frozenness that persisted until there was nothing else. 

And then grief, so strong it could move mountains but _Christ_ , his arms were locked to the table with metal cuffs and _he couldn’t even lift a finger_. Paralyzing fear and panic as it fades to black, and _help, there’s someone I need to see_ but that someone never comes. He will never come.

“Don’t do it,” came Bucky’s voice, almost gone and _so,_ so broken. He was speaking German, or maybe Russian, but for some reason Steve could understand. “Don’t wipe me. I— _please_.”

“I thought after all these years you’d be done with begging,” came a snarling voice. It was cold— so cold.

And then Bucky thought of someone. Steve’s own eyes flashed in Bucky’s mind, deep and bluer than the New York summer sky. And there was a warmth that came from the memory, so strong that Bucky seemed to melt into it. His eyes snapped open.

“Steve Rogers,” he croaked, watching the guards through his tired eyes. “Where is he?”

“Captain America is dead,” came the snarling reply as another pad of needles clamped down on the side of his face. “Nobody’s coming for you.”

And then there was a searing white pain, from grief and the machine together, burning through his skin and frying every nerve in his body, and then there was nothing.

—

Steve’s eyes snapped open and he gasped, falling forward onto the coffee table. It took him a moment to realize that Bucky was now awake.

“Steve,” Bucky said, through uneven breaths. He pushed his hair out of his face and shrunk into the couch, sitting up and pressing his back into the cushions. “What are you _doing_?”

“When was that?” Steve muttered, faltering. “The memory— flashback— when was it?”

“What?”

“I saw it,” Steve said, meeting Bucky’s eyes. There was something in them that he just couldn’t place. “I saw it— in your head. Your dream. I saw it.”

“ _How_?” Bucky whispered, rubbing his face with his right hand.

“I... I don’t know. We can figure that out later.” Steve rested his head in his hands. If this was the time he could help, and maybe listen if Bucky will talk, then he’s not going to miss his chance. “Just— when was that?”

“You don’t know what you saw,” Bucky muttered, shifting his gaze. 

“I _felt_ it, too,” Steve pushed. “I felt the... the fall, and when they wiped you... I felt it.”

Bucky looked miserable. “No. Stop. You need to stop, Steve.” In his voice was a quiet desperation.

“Was it? Was that what you dreamed, too? Of the guards, and...” Steve swallowed. “And me?”

Bucky didn’t answer, but when he shifted Steve could see the way his jaw was clenched. Steve knew that look.

“I just can’t stop fucking hurting people,” Bucky muttered, standing up. He threw the blanket off of him and raised his hands so they slowly wiped under his eyes as he made his way towards the other end of the room. 

“No—“

“Shut up, Steve.” Bucky swallowed around the stone that had lodged his way into his throat. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Well, I am,” Bucky laughed humorlessly.

“Why don’t you sleep in your own room anymore?” Steve swallowed. 

Bucky grinned but it was empty. “We’re doing this? Right here? Right now? Come on, Stevie.”

“Yes, right now. Answer the question.”

“The bed’s too soft.” Bucky bit his lip. “Feels too good to be true.” He cracked another broken grin. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid. I was a soldier once, too,” Steve reminded. “I get it. If you want I can get Tony to—“

“No,” said Bucky firmly. “It’s fine. I’ve just got to get used to it.”

“Alright.” Steve felt uncertain. 

“You’re sad.”

“What? I’m not... no.”

“Yeah, you are. Because of me.”

Blue eyes met blue eyes as Steve bit his lip. “When was that?” he whispered. “The nightmare.”

Bucky stopped, and there was a look of conflict and confusion behind his eyes. It scared Steve. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” He said sharply. How could he not know?

“Can we just forget about it? Forget you ever saw it.”

“I will not, you can’t just brush something like that off! Buck... Buck, you were in pain. There was so much pain.”

“So?” challenged Bucky. He just sounded tired. “There was a lot of pain. You— you don’t focus on a single paint stroke if you’ve got a whole painting.”

Steve was quiet, but there was a lurching feeling in his stomach—of guilt, and an anger at not only the Russians or Germans or whoever but also himself. 

“A whole painting?” he asked weakly. 

“Don’t think too hard,” Bucky murmured. “It won’t do you any good.”

Steve nodded, slightly, still unsure but not willing to say it out loud.

“Good. Look, I’m dealing with it myself, and I’m doing fine.” Bucky smiled lightly. “I appreciate you being worried, though.”

But then Steve thought back again, to that night in 1943, on the side of that mountain, the scene he’d replayed for years and years even after he woke up from the ice. The way Bucky looked, how he turned to Steve with that smile, that grin that he truly hadn’t seen since. 

And then there was searing guilt, that somehow it was Steve’s fault, and that maybe he should’ve jumped after Bucky, and at least died a hero. And then even more guilt, after the Winter Soldier, shame that he didn’t jump because if he could survive a plane crash he could’ve gone after his best friend. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, voice breaking. “For not going after you. I’m sorry.”

“Stop it. Don’t think about the past. The past— it’s gone. It’s done. We move forward.”

“I missed you, Buck,” Steve whispered. “Losing you was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. And then I found out you were alive and all I wanted was to have you back.”

Bucky watched as Steve spoke.

“I wanna see your real smile again,” Steve said, shifting. “That one, the only one I can remember.”

Bucky smiled, softly. “You really care, don’t you.”

“You know I do.”

Bucky wiped his face hastily with his sleeve, sniffling before exhaling in broken laughter. “Stay with me,” he asked Steve. “Just tonight.”

“I will,” he promised.

They sat on the couch for a while, comfortable, listening to each other’s heartbeat and melting into each other’s warmth. The lights of the other side of the compound outside the window sparkled, and if Steve squinted it almost looked like sparks in a fire. 

It was nice for a while. They both knew that trying to sleep was pointless after what happened but it was nice in each other’s company— finally, after so, so long.

The last time he remembers peace like this, with Bucky, was almost seventy years ago. Before the war, even, maybe. Brooklyn, New York, 1930s. If he looked hard enough, maybe he could see the lights of his hometown from here. 

He remembers a fireplace, warm and bright. He remembers the dinners with the Barnes’ family, before the war, before his father left for Germany, before everything in his life had started to unravel. He remembers laughter, bright and sharp and happy, and a smile that could warm heaven itself. He hasn’t heard that laugh since, or seen that smile. God, Bucky shouldn’t be here.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, shaking Steve’s hand. “What’s up, Stevie?” He could tell something was off. Steve tried to swallow past the growing lump in his throat but he couldn’t, he just couldn’t shake it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Steve murmured, voice tight and strained. 

“Slow down,” Bucky told him softly.

“No, you— you shouldn’t be here.” Steve promised himself he wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t break down at this again. There was no use. “It isn’t fair— it shouldn’t have been you. You— you had a life out there, laid out for you, in Brooklyn in 1945.” Steve swallowed again, but his eyes were starting to burn.

“Maybe,” Bucky murmured, holding Steve’s hand with his right. It wasn’t romantic— it was just a way to say _I’m here_. “But that was seventy years ago. This—“ Bucky looked out, gesturing to the darkness outside the window, “is now.”

“You could’ve had a family.” He felt his face start to crumple and he willed it away with everything he had. He shut his eyes tight. “You would’ve been happy, Buck.”

“Not without you,” he said softly. 

“You would’ve gotten over me,” Steve whispered, wiping the back of his hand under his nose. He let out a shaky breath. 

“Stevie, stop it,” Bucky murmured.

“Remember Christmas? In ‘38, before the war? Remember that Christmas party at your grandmother’s house?” 

Bucky nodded, but he felt Steve’s breath shudder beside him, and he knew that wasn’t a good sign. 

“That’s how I remember you, Bucky. That’s how I’ll always remember you, deep down. Young and happy and carefree.” 

Bucky smiled at that, sad and broken but a smile nonetheless. “I miss it,” he agreed, stealing a glance at Steve. His eyes were red, flushed like they always were when he was close to tears. 

“Out there was a life for you to live.” Steve’s voice trembled. “Not stuck here, like this.”

“Maybe there was,” Bucky told him. “But not anymore.” He looked down at Steve in concern; his lips were shaking now. “Listen to me, Stevie. You want to know what my father used to say?”

Steve looked up, eyes glassy. 

“He used to say— keep living in spite of it all. Stay alive so you can spit in their faces when you cross the finish line.” Bucky chuckled. “Or something along those lines.”

But Steve didn’t smile, or laugh or pretend to do either, he just stared at Bucky, stared into his eyes, so hard he though he was looking into his soul. 

And then Steve could feel the tears on his cheeks, hot and salty, and he brought his hands up to his face but before he could try to stop himself, Bucky was there, pulling him in tight. Strong arms— one metal— wrapped themselves around his trembling body and he could do nothing but let the sobs break through, topple over the wall that he had built in his mind. Bucky only held him, strong and warm and _there_. Bucky’s chin rested atop Steve’s, and for the first time in a very, very long time, he felt safe. Truly and completely safe.

“I’m here,” he heard Bucky’s voice, soft. “I’m here. You’re safe. Just close your eyes and breathe.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading and please leave a comment if you liked it!


End file.
